CHAPTER ONE

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Mahtiki, or the Great Mahtiki as some call him, stared into his watch basin. Reaching into his golden robes he pulled out a long, slender rod that shone as though made of pure sunlight. Grasping the handle with a steady yet practiced grip Mahtiki gently prodded the silvery liquid swirling within the basin. A soft glowing light immediately encased the rod and inched up to touch Mahtiki’s fingertips. The demigod’s eyes fluttered shut, his lips curled into a satisfied smile as the light traveled further to cover his entire hand. The power was warm and welcoming; it greeted him like an old and dear friend.

Mahtiki slightly relaxed the grip of his hand holding the rod. He let the power direct him. It tugged at his hand, pulling him in seemingly endless directions. It stopped momentarily at brief moments, but it quickly began moving again as though changing its mind. The demigod waited patiently. He’d been scrying into his watch basin for too many years to have any doubts about the abilities of his seeing stick.

The seeing stick stopped suddenly. Mahtiki waited a moment, but when it didn’t move again he opened his eyes. With an agile grace belying his ancient years he leaned forward and very carefully slipped the rod out of the liquid. At the tip of the seeing stick a long, silver string had attached itself. Mahtiki patiently kept pulling until the liquid string broke off. The demigod twirled the seeing stick in the air above the watch basin and the silver string of liquid gathered in on itself into a palm sized ball. Mahtiki continued to twirl it with a knowledgeable grace.

The liquid began to thicken and expand. Palm size became two feet, then four feet. It stretched into a thin membrane and hung in the air taut with tension. Mahtiki continued without fault to twist his seeing stick, his eyes taking in everything change.

Color flickered across the now six foot tightly drawn liquid. Mahtiki’s movement paused.

Flick, flick, flick.

Color melted into a moving picture. Mahtiki put down his seeing stick with a pleased smile. His smiled only broadened when he took in the figured in the moving picture.

The slayer. How very interesting. He watched her curiously. He knew of slayers, dealt with a couple of them in the distant past, but unless his mind was proving faulty (which he highly doubted) he’d never seen one quite like this one. She was absolutely marvelous, more powerful than any slayer he’d ever seen before. Listening in he chuckled delightedly; she was a spitfire too.

Mahtiki leaned closer, his eyes riveted to the scene playing out before him. How very, very interesting. It was incredible - amazing. Was it really possible? Mahtiki blinked then looked again. It had to be true. He knew it was true. How completely and utterly unexpected. Mahtiki wondered briefly if Dardiana had a hand in it, but he pushed the thought aside. He frowned watching the scene play out in the basin.

Well, this wouldn’t do. This wouldn’t do at all. Mahtiki grabbed up his seeing stick. He knew what to do. Just a little push, a little changing. It was quite simple really. He flicked his seeing stick at the liquid picture and let it fall and dissolve back into the watch basin. Spinning his seeing stick in a decisive movement the demigod set to work.

-

His dark princess, bless her little twisted heart, was even more incoherent than usual. Where Spike would have, in the past, delighted in deciphering every part of his black goddess’s seemingly incomprehensible mutterings, he found himself more annoyed than intrigued.

Drusilla’s eyes were wide. “Miss Edith does not want to play. She says the lilies have sprung and have clogged her throat with frogs.”

Spike sighed, tapping ash off the end of his cigarette. “That’s nice, pet.”

She grabbed at his arm, catching him with cool, spider-like fingers. Though her grip was steady, her eyes were hazy and disorientated. “My prince mustn’t follow the yellow brick road. All it will lead to is aches and dead flowers.”

“Been watchin’ the Wizard of Oz again, love?”

Drusilla’s bottom lip trembled, her eyes shining.

“Oi, pet, none of that,” Spike said, tenderly wiping away an errant single tear that escaped.

Drusilla suddenly frowned at him, pushing his hand away. “No cookies for bad little boys. Only for good boys who know mummy’s milk is the sweetest.”

Spike merely raised an eyebrow, too used to Drusilla’s sudden mood swings to be bothered by it.

When interpreted correctly Spike knew Drusilla’s prophetic ability was not something to scoff at. Spike could remember many occasions where even Darla and Angelus had used her hidden meanings as guidance (such as in 1891, Spike remembered fondly, when Drusilla’s ability saved the Aurelius family from an angry mob). But frankly, that night Spike couldn’t have cared less if she had been spouting prophecies about a dozen virgins coming to lay themselves for sacrifice at his feet.

He was feeling antsy. Plans were … not exactly going, well, according to plan. The slayer was proving to be a bit more difficult than he’d previously considered. And not to mention bloody Peaches and his soul-filled existence. His grandsire making moon eyes at the slayer was bloody blasphemy if anyone asked him. Thinking about it made Spike shudder in revulsion. Sure, he could appreciate a slayer for what they were: genetically engineered fighters. However, they had, in his past two experiences, proven to be adequate but slightly disappointing adversaries.

He could remember when he first heard of the slayer. It was 1882 and he was sitting alone in a grungy Spanish bar. He couldn’t recall where his family was exactly, likely making use of the whorehouse Angelus had admired when they had arrived in Cordoba a few nights earlier. Sipping on the local cerveza his ears picked up a conversation a couple tables away. A couple demons were whispering about a superhuman. A human being that had the strength of a hundred vampires. A human being that was created to destroy anything that was a threat to humanity. He was intrigued. He learned as much as he could about slayers and it soon became an obsession.

Up until he had his fight with his first slayer Spike had held a preconceived notion that slayers were a nearly indestructible creature. He knew the slayer was human and a woman, but that mattered nothing to him. He’d watched Darla and Drusilla giggle with homicidal glee while gutting and torturing a family of ten. Any misconceived idea he held about the fragility of women before Drusilla changed him had been fully eradicated. In his longing for fighting a slayer, he expected fireworks - a battle to end all battles. To truly test his limits against the infamous master fighter kept him occupied for decades. When he defeated his first slayer during the rebellion he thought perhaps it was a fluke that she wasn’t as strong as he had expected. However, after snapping the neck of his second slayer in New York his beliefs in the practically immortal slayer took a severe blow. Not that the second slayer had been an easy kill, she certainly hadn’t. She was full of fire and cleverness, but she burned too quickly.

In all honesty he felt cheated. Not that he wanted to be dust. But through the worst of Angelus he had lived and breathed the legend of the slayer; after his grandsire left it had become more than an obsession for him. It was (after Drusilla of course) his reason for continuing his existence. After the disappointment of the second slayer, and Drusilla’s illness, he had mostly given up on the slayer. He wouldn’t say he’d given up on it forever, but the drive he once had for it was severely diminished. But still, somewhere deep down he knew he would never be truly satisfied until he found that nearly indestructible mythical fighter.

Spike stood up, tucking his lighter into his duster. “Be back in a bit, pet.” Leaning down he kissed Drusilla’s brow, but she was too far gone in pixie dust to notice.

Leaving the factory he breathed in deeply and let the needless air pour out slowly. It was a warm night. He felt a deep need for a spot of violence. It itched between his shoulder blades making him stalk forward at a hurried pace. He followed his nose finding himself drawn to the alluring scent of blood, sex, lust, and everything in between.

He was quick to find himself in front of the Bronze. He smirked. Figures. He could sense them all in there: humans filled with desperation and hopelessness, just waiting to be plucked. Licking his lips he was about to step inside when he felt a familiar twinge at the back of his skull. Slayer. He snarled, baring his sharpened teeth slightly. But then he smiled to himself; he had been looking for a fight, hadn’t he? Who better to scratch that itch than the slayer herself?

Spike crossed the street and melted into the shadows to wait for her. Maybe catch her off guard, scare her a little. His demon giggled in anticipation.

A second later he felt something else. Someone else. The twinge this time was more familiar, and sharper. Grandsire. Angelus was with her. Spike felt a moment of indecisiveness. Even though he knew that logically his grandsire was no longer Angelus, the older vampire’s presence was still able to strike fear in the youngest Aurelius where no one else could. Spike’s years of torture and forced submissiveness stamped into him a fear that the blonde vampire was certain would never completely go away. Spike shook himself hard mentally feeling thoroughly disgusted with himself. He wasn’t that Spike anymore. He was not that vampire that was more William than Spike.

After Angelus had left sporting his shiny new soul, Spike had felt, among many other emotions, extremely confused and wrong-footed. Decades after Angelus left Spike had been able to look back and realize (and he was loathe to admit it) that he had felt very lost when his grandsire left. Yes, he had been relieved that his main torturer was gone, but in a very unhealthy, twisted way he had been … hurt. Not that he regretted the ponce leaving, surely. What had hurt was that Angelus had left his family so easily. They had depended on him greatly … and he left as though they meant nothing. Spike had felt rejected, and abandoned.

It was sick. A disgusting form of Stockholm syndrome. But calling it sick didn’t make it any less the truth. It took many years before Spike could reconcile that Angelus was never truly returning. Hurt turned into anger, anger into hate.

Minutes later they appeared along with a couple of the slayer’s friends. Spike watched as the slayer’s two friends entered the club, but his grandsire and the slayer remained outside talking in low tones. Spike strained to hear, but was frustrated when they were talking quietly enough that he couldn’t. The slayer stood on her tip-toes, planting a soft kiss on Angelus’ mouth before they slipped inside.

Spike briefly considered following them into the Bronze but thought better of it. Not that he was a coward. He was anything but that. But he also wasn’t stupid. He had great confidence in his vampiric abilities, but him against a slayer and his grandsire alone? He might be masochistic, but he certainly wasn’t suicidal.

Whistling a little jaunty tune he walked away from the Bronze deciding to look for some game. Only a couple minutes later Spike sniffed the air. Blood. Fresh blood. He grinned around his incisors. Following the scent he weaved through back alleys, not at all concerned how long it was taking to track the source of blood. Turning onto a particularly darker alleyway Spike stopped abruptly. Four demons wearing brown robes stood in the alley, each looked at Spike with expectancy.

Eyeing them warily Spike sniffed the air. “Allo, mates. Seen a little wounded birdie ‘round here?”

“You’re him?” The one on the far left asked.

Spike raised an eyebrow. “What’s that?”

“The vampire,” The same demon said.

“That I am,” Spike said dryly. “Good on you.”

“You are the vampire named Spike?”

Spike looked at the demon sharply. “And if I am?”

The demon on the far right took over. “Our master has a challenge for you. Do you accept?”

Spike narrowed his eyes. “What are you gettin’ at, twitchy?”

The demon’s looked at each other as though uncertain of how to continue. The demon next to the far left one said, “Our master wishes you to accept his challenge. Do you accept?”

“I heard that the first time, you berk. What kinda challenge?” Spike narrowed his eyes, studying the demons speculatively. “Your master, eh? Does he wanna fight me for mastery of Sunnyhell? Thas it isn’t it? A vamp wants to usurp my command. Bleeding hell. Where’s this poser? Can’t face me, gotta send the minions to do the dirty work, eh?”

Not rising to his insults the demon only repeated, “Do you accept the challenge?”

Spike sniffed the air again. “One mo’. Where’s the kill, then?”

“Kill?”

“No lies now. I can smell it. Vamp as you so astutely pointed out, yeah.”

“Ah,” said the demon on the left. “We had to entice you away from prying eyes. We thought it the best way. It is a spell - nothing more.” He waved a hand and the smell disappeared.

“Dirty pool. Lucky you didn’t get a flock of vamps here.”

“The spell was specially made for you. Only you.”

“Well, that’s right creepy, that is.”

“Do you accept the challenge?”

Spike scowled. “Bleeding right I do! I don’t just sit around letting any vamp – or demon! – think they can take what I rightfully earned. Okay, so I kinda lied and cheated to get the gig, but honestly who doesn’t? I got rules, yeah. And when I say - ” Spike suddenly gasped, grabbing at his chest. It burned. It burned. “Fuck!” He ripped off his duster, then his shirt and tried to distinguish the spontaneous fire. But there was no fire. At least none he could see. He tried to appeal for help from the demons but he found he couldn’t speak.

The demon that had spoken to him first looked down at Spike with pitiless eyes. “You’ve accepted. So it shall be.” Then they disappeared into thin air, leaving Spike alone in the alley.

Falling to his knees Spike braced his hands on the ground in front of him. Taking long keening breaths he let out a whimpered sob. He’d never felt anything like this before. Never. It was worse than crosses, holy water, or any other torture he could think of. It burned him thorough and thorough. The only coherent thought he could muster was that he should be burning into ash but he wasn’t. He wished he was. Death would mean peace from the fire that suffused him; saturated him to his very bones. He scratched at his chest leaving long gashes from his fingernails where strips on skin shredded off. But he didn’t feel it. All he could feel was the fire expanding from his chest into the rest of his body.

He knew he was dying. Really dying. He could feel the burn spread to his throat and down to his toes. It was continuous and excruciating. Every fiber in his body screamed in agony. He was dying, and the moment he passed out he welcomed the darkness.

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